The Air You Breathe
by Amory Vain
Summary: Written for this prompt at the Star Trek XI Anonymous Kink Meme: "Keptain, I don't vant to die a wergin!" Kirk/Chekov; warnings for possibly dubious consent.


**The Air You Breathe [[730 Words]]**  
_Star Trek 2009_  
Kirk/Chekov  
Post-film; no spoilers.

* * *

He's never been so light-headed in his life; it's making him drowsy and slightly giddy and everything seems brighter and slightly blurred at the same time. That's fear and resignation curling together in the pit of his stomach, and yeah, today's a day for contradictions. Some _victory_—who'd have thought that, even in defeat, their enemy's exploding ship could've doomed them to such certain death? Scotty's still working on the environmental controls, somewhere, but Jim's sure as anything he won't be able to restore their damaged converter to oxygen production in time to save their lives.

The air feels thick; he inhales and it's damp and heavy, he has to pant to get any breath at all, or maybe that's just a reaction to

the warm, wet mouth at his neck, pressing clumsy kisses along his jaw. "Chekov—Pavel—we can't, you have to stop this. We can't just—"

"But _Kep_tain," comes out breathy and low, hitching voice and shaking fingers over the badge pinned to his chest, "I have to—I never—"

It takes so much effort to lift his arms from where they rest beside him on the floor, and cup the ensign's chin, push him back for a look at that face, flushed and doubling as Jim's eyes try to focus. "You're a...a virgin?" Somehow it makes sense to pronounce the _V_ as _W_ but that's wrong. Chekov nods anyway, sagging against him, fingers curling tight in his shirtfront. The sound he makes in assent might be a sob.

Of _course_ the answer is yes, and somehow, more than anything—more than the sight of his bridge crew succumbing one-by-one to exhaustion and delirium, more than the sound of McCoy cursing the Fleet, their equipment, space itself over the comm as he rifled through his cabinets for a way to put off the inevitable—this breaks his heart. Pavel's too young for this, too innocent, and when the boy tries again to press his lips to Jim's mouth he doesn't push him away.

He kisses him, slick and hot and Chekov stutters something indecipherable against his teeth when he reaches to catch his hips, grip his ass and pull him to his knees between Jim's legs. His fingers twitch over Kirk's chest, slip up and over the sticky-hot skin of his neck to twine through his hair and Jim groans his approval, almost inaudible under the ringing in his ears.

He loses track of time then, melts into that sweet, eager mouth until somehow they wind up stretched out on the floor. Chekov's gasping beneath him from oxygen deprivation or the hand Jim's working into his slacks, he can't tell, but at least there's something other than fear in his eyes when they blink open, hazed and so _blue_. He throws his head back, gasping _please, puzhalsta, you must_, and Kirk licks up his throat and ruts against his hip, ignoring the way his vision spots at the movement.

Chekov's whole body shakes when Jim finally wraps a hand around his cock and strokes, rough motions that almost sync with the skittering rhythm of his hips, rubbing gracelessly against the soft, fair skin of the boy's bare stomach. He's speaking now, too, half-finished _I'm sorries_ and _I should'ves_ on every exhale, choked out against sticky-hot skin and the thrumming pulse beneath. It's—not good, there's too much friction and not enough _time_, but he can't bring himself to stop, can't think of a way to make this better, to make them _not dying_ every second the clock marks.

Chekov comes with a groan, something harsh and unintelligibly Russian, his hands curling into fists in Kirk's hair and pulling hard. It's on that pain that he follows, spilling slick across the front of his own uniform before he collapses to the side and nearly blacks out. Chekov's gone limp, arm trapped underneath Jim's shoulder and it's too much effort to roll away so he pulls the boy close, curls around him on the floor and allows his eyes to shut, too.

As he drifts, sleep creeping in at the corners of his mind, he thinks he hears the sound of vents clicking open, imagines the feel of cool, fresh air beginning to flow into the room, bringing with it the possibility of survival. And _that_, he muses, would make this situation entirely awkward in the morning.


End file.
